Giants
by thegirlinthedeathfrisbee
Summary: ONE-SHOT. He'd skip his early classes, and they'd learn how their bodies work. R/R s'il vous plait!


**Author's Note**: Why hello there! I haven't posted in a while. My apologies. I've started a new job and it's been uninspiring. However! Look at this! I've been listening to a lot of Death Cab for Cutie recently, and my favorite song of theirs inspired a "deleted scene" for To Poisons and Their Antidotes! Weee! Basically pure smut, but that's the way the cookie crumbles.

Enjoy!

* * *

It's early. Far too early for thinking, if John's to be honest. But it's the only time that the bloody class wasn't full up, so he hadn't had a choice in the time slot. But Christ, six in the morning was a god awful time to be forced elbow deep in cadavers.

He tramps down the stairs of his building with his eyes closed and his mind still spinning. He'd had a late one, Sherlock having brought him back to his own flat at somewhere near three that morning. John had fallen right into bed, only to wake up two hours later as his alarm had jolted him. Isn't the best condition to go to that class in, but he doesn't really have a choice, does he?

John pushes the door open and steps out into the (thankfully) cool morning breeze.

And a tall man is waiting for him.

"Fancy meeting you here." Sherlock says casually, smirking as John very nearly jumps into the street out of pure shock. He lifts himself off the wall and pushes John toward his car, pressing him against the driver door. John is barely registering what's happened, but his skin is tingling and his hazy brain is enjoying the pressure of Sherlock's hips against him. "I could say the same." he replies finally. Sherlock bares down upon him, eyes gleaming and mouth set in _that_ smirk.

"Going somewhere?" Sherlock asks, voice dropped into a murmur.

John swallows. His heart has already started racing. "Early class."

"Some sort of... advanced anatomy, as I recall."

"It's a lab."

"Yes, I'm aware."

He's still got that look in his eye. John's hands are pressed flat against the car, palms sweating against the cool steel of the door. Sherlock leans forward, down into his ear, and murmurs, "I had a thought," His breath is hot against the shell of John's ear, "Perhaps you'd be interesting in attending a different anatomy lab today."

John's eyebrow quirks. "Oh?"

"Mmm. Maybe one with a live body."

John smirks, "And who might the willing body be?"

He feels Sherlock's teeth scrape against his skin and it sends a welcome chill down his spine. "As though you need ask."

It's not that he means to skip off the class. In fact, he'd had every intention of going through the whole lab. But really, he wasn't doing himself any favours by going. Surely his mind would trick him, he'd blunder, get things wrong for not paying attention. So it's no surprise to him that he's found himself in Sherlock's car (well, Sherlock's car. The rental he's been forced into having while the Mercedes is being repaired is what John's really sitting in) speeding in the wrong way from Bart's.

It's also no surprise to him that once they stop, officially, in some secluded part of London John's never imagined, Sherlock practically throws himself into the back and pulls John to join him. And it's most certainly no surprise that they're instantly attached at the lips, hands fumbling over each other's clothing, attempting to hurriedly strip one another as much as physically possible.

Sherlock tugs at John's shirt, harsh pulls upward that get caught at their mouth. John chuckles as he releases Sherlock's lips, allows himself to be stripped from the waist. He, himself, is working with the fly of Sherlock's trousers, though the angle is bizarre and his hands don't seem to be cooperating correctly. Sherlock is quick to assist, undoing the fly and forcing them and his pants over his hips and down his legs.

He doesn't do the same for John's trousers. He hurriedly undoes the fly and John lifts his hips, but Sherlock only shoves them down as far as his knees before he stretches his long leg across John's lap and plants himself upon his thighs.

"Sherlock, we can't-" John says breathlessly.

"And why's that?" Sherlock's voice is husky and at just the right decibel to send electricity through John's spine, right into his hips.

"We don't have any-"

Sherlock tuts, shaking his head as he scoots forward, pressing their hips into one another. John groans quietly as Sherlock leans into him, his hands slipping over the curve of John's ribs. "Surely you wouldn't take me for one to plan a sexual kidnapping and not bring proper provisions?"

John laughs quietly, sliding his hands down Sherlock's back to cup his arse. "Should've known."

Both emit low, unintended groans as he presses them into one another. Sherlock shifts, impatience growing more and more evident. He twists, reaching into the pocket of his coat hanging on the back of the driver's seat. From it, he procures their provisions. With no hesitation, he tears through the condoms packaging and shifts back, rolling it over John in a rather hurried manner. John bites his down on his bottom lip, watching Sherlock's hand at work. "Are we in a rush?" he asks, glancing up to Sherlock's face from beneath his brow.

"Yes." Sherlock growls, uncapping the bottle. Before he can tip any into his palm, however, John intercepts. He likes this part, the absolute control over Sherlock's body. He extends his left hand before Sherlock, raising expectant eyebrows. And Sherlock, with a haughtily raised eyebrow, obliges. He tips the bottle and it pools in John's palm, and John grins as he rubs his palms together. "I can't imagine why we'd be rushing." he says conversationally, slathering it between his fingers. "Not as though I've got anything on 'til later."

"It's a rush of necessity." Sherlock retorts, shifting himself closer. He lifts just so, allows for John's hand to slip beneath him. John watches his face, a habit he's become quite fond of in this scenario. This time, while John probes accordingly, Sherlock shuts his eyes. His face relaxes and he breathes deeply. John watches his jaw tense as he lowers himself, sliding his body down upon John's finger.

Yes, this is definitely John's favourite part. Sherlock's lips part just slightly, his eyebrows crease and his eyes squeeze just enough. He releases a deep breath, as though he's been holding one in his chest. John leans forward, swiping his tongue against Sherlock's bottom lip as he slips his index finger to join his middle. It causes something like a breathless whimper to force itself from him, paired with an eager and hungry smashing of lips to lips.

It isn't long until Sherlock is officially squirming impatiently again. He reaches between the two of them and grips John possessively, staring at John through his lashes. "Yes." he says simply. In any other scenario, it may have seemed out of context. However, John understands. He nods enthusiastically, sliding both hands to meet Sherlock's hips as he lifts himself once again.

There is some rearrangement. John slumps just slightly in his seat, Sherlock has to fold his long limbs just slightly more than he might typically, but the moment is most certainly worth it when Sherlock wraps his slender fingers around John and guides him. With a hiss from both men, he sinks himself slowly upon John. It's excruciating and glorious and John is tempted to force him down to the base quickly, but he merely grips into Sherlock's skin instead.

There is a moment of pause. There is always a moment of pause. When John is as deep as he can possibly go, when Sherlock is adjusting to accommodate. It's the moment in which there is nothing more than deep breaths, of a language built entirely on their bodies. Sherlock swallows and his hands shift to meet John's neck. John's jaw clenches and he slides one of his down Sherlock's back, to flatten against the swell of his arse.

And then there is movement. The muscles in Sherlock's legs tense as he lifts, dragging himself up the length of John slowly. John's mouth parts, his breath held in his chest and his mind becoming hazier and hazier. Sherlock's elbows settle upon John's shoulders, his hands gripping into John's hair as he forces himself down once again. "_Jesus._" John groans, breathless and whimpering. Sherlock has a dizzy smile as he finds a satisfactory rhythm, pushing and pulling and allowing just slight adjustments beneath John's palm.

John has never personally experienced sex in a car before. Not in this respect. Once, during the summer when he was sixteen, a girl he fancied gave him a handy in his mum's car, but that was the closest really. This was an entirely new experience. The air outside is early morning cool, but the interior of the car is warm. No, not cool. Hot. John is beginning to sweat around his hairline. His body is damp. He can see that Sherlock's skin is beginning to get a film, catching light with the contortion of his body. The windows have fogged, officially. Just like in the films.

It's all very, _very_ attractive.

John's hand slips between them, wrapping around Sherlock's erection. It, too, is slick with a thin layer of sweat, and when he grips, Sherlock emits a whimper that may have been undignified. He leans his forehead against John's, panting as he rocks and rolls his hips. His hands grab tight in John's hair, collecting as much as he possibly can in each fist and holding tight.

Neither is going to last much longer. John is stroking Sherlock in the way he knows he likes most, and Sherlock's pace has quickened. John shoves his face forward, snatching Sherlock's lips in a harsh kiss. He reaches up with his free hand and grips the back of Sherlock's head, twisting his fingers in his hair and forcing their lips to stay together. They're panting into one another's mouths, grunts and groans and whimpers slipping and dancing against the others tongue.

"_Fu-I'm-_-" John manages.

"_Me-_" Sherlock can hardly speak.

John's hips buck instinctively. Sherlock whimpers breathlessly, eyes squeezing shut. His teeth grip John's bottom lip and his body quivers. John can feel the pulsing in his hand, and then release upon his belly. He follows quite soon after, shaking and blinded, with a strangled cry into Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock heaves a deep, satisfied sigh as he leans back, bracing himself against John's thighs. John is trying to reclaim his breath, chest heaving hard. It's hot. It's muggy. The visual through the windows is nil, steamed completely. "So," Sherlock says after a silent, breathy moment. John raises his eyebrows, eyes half-lidded as Sherlock asks, "Learn anything new?"

John gives a breathless chuckle. He points to the window lazily, "That actually happens."

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow.

"The fog. Windows actually fog when you shag in a car."

Sherlock's brows furrow. He gives John one of those looks, the ones that tell John's he's saying something ridiculous again. John just laughs, because he's bubbly and half asleep and Sherlock is still on him, and that's completely okay. It takes a moment before Sherlock finally shifts his hips and slides John from his body. John takes the opportunity to lean forward and wrap his arms around Sherlock. "Fancy a cup of coffee?" he asks.

"May need to clean up a bit first." Sherlock glances down, eyes pinpointing his exact meaning. John looks down to his body and recalls. Ah. That's right.

"Back at my flat?" John replies.

"Let me get back into my trousers."


End file.
